I marked the slow withdrawal of the year,
Out on the hills the scarlet maple shone—
The glad, first herald of triumphal dawn.
A robin’s song fell through the silence—clear
As long ago it rang when June was here.
Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn
Across the sky; and all the song was gone,
And all the gold was quick to disappear.
That day the sun seemed loth to come again;
And all day long the low wind spoke of rain,